Cross is here, But am I?

Picture: Jim Cossey

I’m going to start this post with a gentle pre-warning: this may be triggering for some people. Please know that I’m always here if anyone needs to talk or listen. At the end of this post, I’ve also included a list of amazing resources if you’re in need of support 🫶

Cyclocross season 2024-25 is here. I should be buzzing—coming off the back of my best-ever season last year, I expected to be filled with excitement for months, eagerly anticipating each race. But the truth is, I’ve been pretending this season wasn’t coming at all. I’ve pushed it to the back of my mind, and now that it’s here, I find myself wondering: am I even ready?

This season was supposed to feel different for me in so many ways. Instead of thinking about race prep—cleaning bikes, organizing gear, packing my kit bags—this October should have been spent preparing for something much more significant. I should have been assembling buggies, folding tiny bibs, and packing a hospital bag for an entirely different arrival.

Instead of “cross has arrived,” this month was meant to be “baby James has arrived.”

But that didn’t happen.

Unfortunately, a miscarriage changed the course of everything.

It’s hard to describe the disconnect I feel now. Last year, I was so in tune with the rhythm of the races, the energy of the season, and the fierce determination that pushed me through every course. But this year, my mind feels scattered, and my heart heavy. There’s a weight of loss that lingers, even in spaces where joy once resided.

Grief is a complex thing. On one hand, I want to throw myself into the chaos of cyclocross—the mud, the sweat, the adrenaline that usually lets me lose myself completely. On the other hand, part of me feels stuck in the October I had envisioned—the one where my time and heart would be dedicated to something much more precious than racing. It’s difficult to reconcile the timeline I had in my heart with the one I’m living now.

Cyclocross has always been a place for me to prove myself—to push through physical limits, to grow as an athlete. But this season, it feels more like a confrontation than an invitation. Am I really ready to be on the start line when part of me still feels so unsteady?

Cycling has always helped me process my emotions. It’s a refuge, a sanctuary where I can clear my head when the world feels overwhelming. There’s something about the rhythm of turning the pedals, the wind on my face, the burn in my legs—it feels like therapy in motion. Every ride gives me space to breathe, to grieve, and to make sense of the unspeakable. When I’m on the bike, it’s just me and the road (or mud, depending on the day). At times, cycling is the only thing that makes sense when everything else feels out of control. It helps keep my body moving when my mind feels like it’s standing still.

But even in those moments of escape, the weight of what’s happened pulls me back. While cycling helps me process my emotions, it’s also a reminder that this season isn’t what I imagined it would be. The physical pain of pushing through a hard ride mirrors the emotional pain I’ve been carrying—sometimes it’s cathartic, but other times, it feels like a battle I never signed up for.

The idea of racing now feels like a mix of refuge and resistance. On one hand, racing could be the outlet I need to channel all of this emotion and energy. Racing has always been a way for me to feel strong, to prove that I can endure. But on the other hand, the thought of stepping up to the start line when my heart isn’t fully in it feels performative, like I’m going through the motions without truly connecting to them.

What I do know is that cycling, in its quiet way, has been there for me—even when racing hasn’t felt right. Every ride gives me the choice: to push hard or to ride gently, to zone out or to tune in. It’s one of the few places where I still feel some sense of control, even when everything else feels unpredictable. And while I’m still unsure of my goals for this season, I’ll continue turning to cycling as a way to process, to heal, and to figure out what comes next.

For now, maybe my rides don’t need to be about winning or pushing myself to the edge. Maybe they can be about something softer—about reconnecting with myself, feeling the ground beneath my wheels, and allowing that to be enough. Perhaps I don’t need to force myself to be “ready” for the season in the way I once defined it. Instead, I can redefine what readiness looks like, on my own terms.

Maybe this season isn’t about racing at all. Maybe it’s about healing. Perhaps the real race isn’t against other riders or even against myself, but against the belief that I have to be “all in” or I’m failing. It’s possible that, right now, the biggest act of strength I can offer is simply choosing to keep moving—even if I’m not moving fast, even if I don’t know where the road will take me.

And that’s the thing: forward motion, no matter how slow, is still progress. Healing, grief, and growth don’t happen on a predictable timeline, and there’s no reward for getting through it faster than anyone else. It’s a deeply personal journey, and sometimes, it doesn’t feel linear at all. There will be days where everything feels aligned—the ride, the rhythm, my heart—and days where just putting on the kit feels like an achievement. Both are valid. Both are necessary parts of the journey.

I’m learning that there’s power in allowing myself to move at my own pace, without the pressure to conform to a certain version of “normal.” If I need to step back, take a break, or approach things differently this season, that’s okay. Showing up for myself means listening to what I need, even if it’s not what I originally expected. And that means being okay with whatever this season turns out to be—whether it’s full of races, or just quiet, solo rides that help me process everything I’ve been through.

For now, it’s enough to take things one ride at a time. Maybe that’s all I need to do this season—show up for myself, in whatever way feels right. And maybe, eventually, the start line won’t feel like a confrontation anymore, but an invitation to move forward, no matter how slowly.

Eventually, I hope the start line will feel like home again—a place where I can be fully present, excited, and connected to the moment. But until then, I’ll keep taking things one day, one ride, and one breath at a time. Slowly but surely, I’ll find my way back to the joy racing has always brought me. And when that happens, I’ll be ready—on my own terms, in my own time.

To anyone else who feels like they should be “buzzing” for something but instead feels hollow or disconnected, I see you. I’m with you. There’s no perfect timeline for healing, and there’s no shame in being present with where you are—even if it’s not where you thought you’d be.

We often set expectations for ourselves—whether it’s in sport, life milestones, or even in how we think we should process difficult emotions. We tell ourselves that by now, we should feel a certain way or be in a certain place emotionally. But life has a way of reminding us that healing doesn’t work like that. There’s no ticking clock, no deadline to “move on” or “get back to normal.” Healing is messy, it’s non-linear, and some days, it can feel like you’re back at square one.

But that’s okay.

You don’t have to rush through your feelings or push yourself to be someone you’re not ready to be yet. It’s okay to sit with your grief, your sadness, your confusion, and just be. It’s okay if showing up for life, or for a race, or even for yourself feels like too much right now. And it’s okay if all you can do is take things moment by moment, step by step, or in my case—ride by ride.

You are not less because you’re still in the middle of your healing. You’re not weaker for taking things slowly. In fact, there’s incredible strength in allowing yourself the space to process what you’ve been through without forcing yourself to “get over it” or move at a pace that doesn’t feel natural.

If you’re feeling lost, hollow, or uncertain, know that it’s okay. You’re not alone in that feeling, and there’s no rush to be “okay” again. Some days will feel better, others might feel like the weight is unbearable, but every little step forward—no matter how slow—is still progress. Even the days when just getting out of bed feels like a win.

What matters most is that you show up for yourself in whatever way you can. Whether that’s getting on your bike for a quiet, meditative ride, spending time with people who make you feel supported, or even giving yourself permission to take a day (or many days) off. There’s no “right” way to move through this, and there’s certainly no race to the finish line when it comes to healing.

So, to anyone who feels like they’re struggling right now—whether it’s with grief, loss, or just feeling disconnected from where you thought you’d be—please know that you’re not alone. And more importantly, you don’t have to go through this alone. Reach out if you need help, whether it’s to a friend, a loved one, or one of the resources I’ve listed below. There’s so much strength in asking for support when you need it.

And remember: there’s no perfect timeline for healing, no expectations you need to meet, no finish line you need to cross. Take your time, be kind to yourself, and know that it’s okay to not have it all figured out right now.

With love,

Ruby


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Resources

General Mental Health Support:

1. Samaritans
   Website: samaritans.org
   Phone: 116 123 (available 24/7)

2. Mind
   Website: mind.org.uk
   Phone: 0300 123 3393

3. Shout
   Website: giveusashout.org
   Text: SHOUT to 85258

4. CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably)
   Website: thecalmzone.net
   Phone: 0800 58 58 58 (daily, 5 pm to midnight)

Pregnancy Loss and Baby Loss Support:

1. The Miscarriage Association
   Website: miscarriageassociation.org.uk
   Phone: 01924 200799

2. Tommy’s
   Website: tommys.org
   Phone: 0800 0147 800

3. Seen- Baby Loss Support Charity
   Website: www.seen.charity

4. Aching Arms
   Website: achingarms.co.uk

5. Sands
   Website: sands.org.uk
   Phone: 0808 164 3332

Grief and Bereavement Support:

1. Cruse Bereavement Support
   Website: cruse.org.uk
   Phone: 0808 808 1677

2. The Compassionate Friends UK
   Website: tcf.org.uk
   Phone: 0345 123 2304

3. Child Bereavement UK
   Website: childbereavementuk.org
   Phone: 0800 02 888 40

4. The Lullaby Trust
   Website: lullabytrust.org.uk
   Phone: 0808 802 6868